Nantaquoud: A 'The New World' Alt Ending
by liebedero
Summary: "Come away with me," she says. He does not move because he no longer knows how. The men back at the fort would die. She comes to warn him. John Smith x Pocahontas. Set when she warns him about the attack party. How things could have been. Oneshot.
1. Nantaquoud

"Come away with me," she says. He does not move because he no longer knows how. The men back at the fort would die. She comes to warn him. She hopes that he will come away with her, and leave the men behind, but she does not expect it. She yet understands his loyalties. He blinks his bright, dark eyes in the night against the glaring flames flickering behind her lithe figure. Turmoil rages inside of him. He cannot move. He is conflicted.

"Nantaquoud, leave. They will come in the morning and you will be here yet. You must come," Her eyes plead with him, and make his heart sore. He has a duty to the settlers. His honor will not let him leave. Yet he has nothing here that is worth all that she is worth. Hearing his Algonquin name clouds his head with the memories of her. The memories of their time together in the woods, so alone and yet so alive and unified with all the world that exists to him. London is a mere memory. Life before her was a dream. The name he once had was false. Wrong. Nantaquoud. That is his name.

Her. That is his heart.

"Come, hurry. We must go away, or they will come and you will be here yet," She is hushed but urgent. He blinks once more as his thoughts congeal in his head, too tight and close and thick to understand what he wants. Each time she speaks of it he thinks of the settlers. She has come to warn him, knowing very well that he might not come. Knowing that her own people might die because she warned him, and he did not leave with her.

She says nothing. The want and plead is in her eyes. Dark and glassy, like mirrors to his very soul. He cannot help but gravitate towards her as she fidgets, wary like the deer, ready to sprint away in a flash. That would end the illusion. He must run after her, if she runs away.

He takes one step forward. Her face betrays fear, as all her movement halts. Her dark eyes pierce him. Her jaw clenched tight in anticipation. She risks her own life. He cannot risk her life. He takes another step, and one more. They come faster, lighter, quicker as if he walks on air. This is the feeling of the Summer and the Autumn. This is the feeling that had felt ages away two steps ago.

Nantaquoud wonders how he left her before. They are inches apart, but he must look far down to see the girl. Their hands inch slowly into each other's grasp, as is their natural custom. The habit acquired what seems to him to have been forever and ago. He holds tight, and she begins to step gracefully backwards, still facing him, pulling him by the hand away from the false life he willingly led for a people that had no care for any but themselves.

Tomorrow the settlers will die.

He does not blink. He only walks with her, following her cautious steps. They reach the middle of the field. She walks with a quicker step, still backwards, never turning, her eyes constant in his, calling into their oceans. _Come back and come home, home to my heart. _He cannot do anything but comply. She rules his mind, and his heart rules his mind. She is his heart.

Tomorrow the settlers will die. Tonight and forever Nantaquoud will live. Powhatan Nation will live. They reach the forest's edge.

She looks at him hard. He tightens his grip on her hand. The night flies past them and into day. The sun's rays glimpse over the edge of the world. What a wide and eternal world. Never ending wilderness that is only forever. They are at Werowocomoco. They have come home. She brings him through the silent village to her father's lodge.

Nantaquoud is exhausted. It has taken all his strength to come here. To not turn back. He falls on his knees. The Mamanatowick looks down upon him. Nantaquoud breaths deeply and closes his eyes in anticipation. He waits, breath stilled in fear. The corner of his mouth twitches. He listens.

She has fallen prostrate on the ground between him and her father. The words tumble from her mouth as she begs him to be merciful. His teeth clench. Merciful on them both. She loves him, she cries out. She laments before anything has been decided. Voices begin to sound around them. Nantaquoud still does not open his eyes. He is living in the dream; it clouds his senses. He waits, smelling and hearing all that is exotic and familiar all at once.

It seems a long time but he knows it is not. He still cannot feel the sun's rays upon his back. His breath is hitched. His jaw remains clenched. He listens as the Mamanatowick orders the warriors to continue on their mission. They move away and he speaks to her, still on the ground before him, sobs wracking her body, sun-kissed and bronzed.

They will look for him, the Mamanatowick says. Nantaquoud knew this, and now only breaths fear. There is silence. Even her sobs have been quelled in expectation of the next words. They will not find him the Mamanatowick assures her. Nantaquoud is only here. There is no other. There is no man from the sky, or from east across the sea.

Nantaquoud's eyes open with breathy release. She has crawled to her father's feet, and is kneeling now, her arms gently wrapping around his legs in thankfulness. He tells her to leave, and she lets him go, standing with her infinite grace.

Nantaquoud's eyes are open and he breathes but still he cannot move. He is as stone. The moments are unreal. He wonders if they ever will be real. _Never_. This, he knows. _Assimilate_, his heart and mind chant with every pounding beat of blood in his body. She places her hands on his shoulders and leans her cheek to the top of his head. They do not move. They are as of stone together.

This Nantaquoud knows. Together. That will not change.

They sway now. They are no longer stone. Now they are wood. Stone does not grow. Wood changes and grows and moves. Just as does love. His heart remembers that he has left many to die. He does not weep for them, but his heart mourns. They will not be missed by him, even still. Perhaps it is for the best. The settlers, they are nothing. The people here. They are everything. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists to him. Moments are eons. Change is relative to the slightest movements. All is fluid and earthy and real.

He stands with her in his arms. Runs his coarse hands over her unblemished shoulders. He lets his chin rest in her silky hair, and feels her smooth check press against his chest, her arms encircling his waist, holding gently, seeking comfort in his embrace.

The night has been a long one. The morning light sparkles on the dew in the leaves. The world around them glitters, in its own ethereal. Shadow and light dance as the morning hums to life around them. Not far away, off the mouth of the Chickahominy river, the settlers fall to the ground, heads bashed in with the clubs of the people. Back in the glade of Werowocomoco, John Smith has died too.

With the light of the new late spring morn, the English settlers have left the New World behind. Born from the sun's everlasting rays, Nantaquoud finally lives, breathing his first breaths of life. Life that has meaning. Life that is real. Life that lives. And with Nantaquoud, the people live around him. With him, she lives. Matoaka. His Pocahontas.

And the earth breathes as all nature is in harmony. New seeds are sown on the field of the dead settlers. The Chickahominy carries them away. Memories that fade as the world glistens in new light, and life goes on.

* * *

Fan Fiction for The New World: An Alternate course of action from the very moment he lays eyes on her at the bonfire. Nantaquoud was the Algonquin name given to Smith after his honorary acceptance into the tribe. That is a historical fact. All native names are historical fact. Spelling is the anglicised official. This means no Algonquin accent marks. Reviews for this would be wonderful I tried to capture the exact mood of the whole first half of the film in this, and I really hope I did it justice!


	2. Matoaka

Her doe eyes watch, wary, dark and flashing. She is glad that Nantaquoud did not come with her today. If he had, he would see the men from the east had returned. This frightened her. Would they take him away from her, if they found him? He had already become browned as any other of their people. His old cloths had been shed in favour of the ones she had made for him, of soft buckhide. It had been her wedding present to him. And he had given her in return a beautiful feather and beaded chain, made from his now very long hair. She had quickly braided it into her own.

He was slowly learning and becoming one of them. They never spoke in the tongue of the men from the east any longer. Nor in the sign language they had used during the time of dreams. That is what he called their first seasons together. Now he spoke in her language. But he was still quiet, though she was no longer. She always sang, to him, and to the trees and the grasses and the deer, the raccoon, the chipmunk. She sang to make them grow and live. Live again.

She would watch him, as she sang. Watch as he stood at the edge of the river, watching. Were there any returning? She knew this was his constant thought. Soon she would tell him that it didn't matter, that he was only an Algonquin warrior, and the husband of Matoaka.

The fact that he couldn't forget where he had come from and who he had left behind, it worried her. Would he leave, and not be able to find his way back again, like last time? No, she heartened herself. He could not leave her again. Now they were forever apart of one another. She rested a hand gently over her stomach.

Tonight. She would tell him all her news. She would trust him.

Her doe eyes took one last glance at the men from the east as they worked, rebuilding their fort.

There was a feast that night, for Powhatan's youngest wife had born him another son. The warriors danced around the fire, in ceremony. Nantaquoud was among them. Matoaka watched on with glowing pride as he danced, step for step. He had learned well the details of things since his initiation into the tribe. They had now, all trust in their brother. He led small groups in the battle against a rival tribe of Powhatan's. He had been brave. None under his command perished.

And then, upon return, he had been honored. The marking they gave him signified the Mamanatowick's regard for Nantaquoud. Soon after that, she had been given to him in marriage. Nantaquoud had profusely thanked Powhatan many times for that honor. Powhatan had shrugged him off, merely saying that all that mattered was that she was no longer his responsibility. She was Nantaquoud's now.

It was late in the night before they climbed into their pelt bedding in their lodge.

"Nantaquoud. There are things we must speak of, before you dream tonight,"

"Tell me," he replied, eyes open in an instant as she rolled onto her back to next to him. He propped himself up on one arm, so he could see her clearly, even in the darkness. He felt her grasp his wrist and felt her pull it towards her, and then rest upon her abdomen.

He looked into her eyes with wonder. "A child?" She smiled shyly and nodded in the affirmative, as a warm smile lit upon his features. But her expression changed with her dark thoughts upon the sky people.

"I fear for her," she gazed into his handsome face, her hand falling against his cheek.

"You are so sure of a girl?" he asked, but then registered the first part of her words. Concern melted all the warmth and happiness. "Fear? Why? Are you ill, or hurt?"

She simply shook her head. "The sky people. They have come back. They speak of a search party. They want to find those that have gone away now. They will look for you. And if they find you, I will have no husband, and she shall have no father. And my Nantaquoud will be lost to me again,"

She watched his face carefully as he heard all she told him. He stood very suddenly. She was frightened by such a movement, and exited their lodge. She could hear his rich deep tones mingling with those of her native brothers. A sharp cry pierced the black of night. Soon it was not the only one.

Matoaka slipped from the lodge and hurried to her father, who was with the warriors. She leaned into his ear, quietly pleading that Nantaquoud be left behind when it came to war. Let him go on with the scouts, but do not let him fight. That was her eternal plea.

The Mamanatowick brushed her away with a hand. He had heard her plea. He would speak with Nantaquoud later, after the scouts had come back. He had left with them, to assess their true numbers and power in a way that the others could not.

So she left too. Padding her way through the paths only she knew, paths that only they had taken together, the sun rose gently, as the night gave way to the dawn. She peered through a copse of trees. Men were planting. The fort was still being finished. Women milled about their way, running after children. This was a different settlement than the one they had all last known. In those times, it had been a camp of scared men, dangerous with their fire sticks and long knives.

Matoaka let herself hope that these might be peaceful sky people.

Nearby, Nantaquoud told one of their brothers the same hope. They left as silently as they came. All sending the heart-hope to the Great Spirit that kept their ancient flame burning, their ways and life preserved in nature and her ways.

The Mamanatowick, Great Powhatan, took their report with wary ease. He knew as he had last time that his people could not remain undiscovered. Perhaps the scouts should return each day. Watch and see. How much did they expand? Were many dying? Were they peaceable? Many moons they watched, and Matoaka watched too, hand always resting on Nantaquoud's arm, gently reminding him of his place in life.

And their child grew within her.

She was not many months along when Powhatan decided that the Settlers proved no great threat as they had before. He trusted the word of Nantaquoud. He heard it as the truth. And he heeded his daughter.

"To watch and guide, you will return each day with the scouts, but no contact can you make, as they do. You must stay. You are not yet enough like us at sight. You are not as brown. You have not such dark hair. Nor as sleek,"

So at nights, Matoaka combed through his lengthening locks. And Nantaquoud kept no beard, nor mustache. And he spent much time with his wife and unborn child lazing in secluded and sundrenched meadows, and the glistening pools of clear cool water where the sun hit them.

It was still some time before the scouts decided to make first contact.

"Take only bows with you. Do not touch all you see, nor any people. Walk with pride, as always you would do with our own people. Look with appraising eyes. See the man with the medal on a cord? He is the one in charge. Him you must all approach. You are tall. Look down at him, but be even. Even though he cannot understand you, speak what it was you would say to him, in our own language. Give this to him - a rabbits left hind foot. This will symbolize your good will to him. When you leave, leave in all direction of the forest. They will not follow you well,"

He watched on carefully, Matoaka at his side, one hand gently resting on her stomach, the other lightly on his forearm. It happened as he had instructed. They were not followed.

The next day, they watched on again, without making any contact. Every day they watched on. The men from the east were hardy, and though they struggled at the harvest, the persevered. She was half through her pregnancy, when the Mamanatowick looked upon Nantaquoud and pronounced him to look Algonquin. He should approach the men from the east this time. The other scouts should make him seem important. He should only speak Algonquin, if he would speak at all.

Matoaka feared. She watched as he and the others padded out of the forest, lithe on their feet, faces painted, and bodies glistening. A woman in a field dropped her tools and screamed. Nantaquoud paid her no heed. The man they had confronted last time came to the field to greet them. He spoke in the pale faced language.

"This is the second time you confront us. We took your offering as a sign of peace. What is it you want now?"

Nantaquoud stood tall and proud. He nodded once to the man. Then he spoke in Algonquin. He reiterated what the man had said to the scouts. They nodded. Nantaquoud lay down his bow, but none of the others did.

The governor called out to a man, and then addressed Nantaquoud. "What is it that you want of us?"

Your sign of peace in return, Matoaka pleaded in her heart, in union with Nantaquoud's.

But he did not show it. He stalked passed the Governor, unarmed, leaving the scouts behind, standing in a group, watching carefully all those who had congregated around the spectacle. He padded silently, yet purposefully up to the gateway of the fort, and pushed the gate way. All noise had hushed. All eyes watched on.

The governor hurried to keep up. 'What is it you want?" he asked futilely. Nantaquoud gazed over to him, and locked his eyes, then pointed to the faded paint marks that had once signified peace to the Algonquin peoples.

One man spoke up. "Peace, sir. He gave up two offerings of peace, he wants one in return!"

The Governor turned to look at Nantaquoud, who had begun to speak in Algonquin. "Listen to him. It's peace. All we want is your assurance of peace," he gazed inquiringly at the governor.

"Repaint it man!"

Nantaquoud nodded, satisfied, turned slowly, and left the camp. It was a beginning.

Matoaka was waiting for him just beyond the boundary of the forest. He gathered her into his arms. He was going nowhere.


End file.
